I’VE been struck down by a terrible disease this week . . . and no amount of Tamiflu can cure me.

It’s called “Severe Lack of Taste” Syndrome.

This curious illness has been brought about by my attempts to buy holiday clothes during the High Street’s changeover from summer to autumn.

Seriously, it’s harder than it sounds. With all my wedding preparations reaching a crescendo I’d overlooked the fact that I’ll be needing a supply of shorts, vests, sarongs, skirts, summer dresses, flip-flops and all the rest of it for the honeymoon.

It was only during a recent shopping trip to Asda, when I noticed a pile of sad-looking mismatched Lycra shoved in the corner of the George section with “HALF PRICE” written above it, that it dawned on me. In a little while all the lovely bright summer clothes would be replaced by grey cardigans and winter boots.

And so began my panic-buying.

My shopping endeavours over the last fortnight could be likened to the behaviour of contestants during the final of the Crystal Maze — frantically grabbing for gold bits of paper, but ending up with useless silver ones instead. It’s been hit and miss. I bought two quite nice bikinis for £1.75 each in one sale — you can't argue with that.

But — for a reason which now escapes me — I also snapped-up a circa 1998 black nylon boob tube, a pair of denim shorts that are too big, and a fluorescent orange over-sized T-shirt dress that looked so hideous when I got it home, it was almost funny.

I’ve never been good buying in the sales. My judgement goes completely out of the window and I get totally swayed by the price tag. A pair of sequinned hotpants for £2.99? It would be criminal to leave them there.

Severe lack of taste syndrome isn't the only type of sartorial madness to strike women. There are various strains of the disease.

Another one I'm susceptible to is “selective blindness”. This seems to strike me down shortly before any important social function.

I will look into my wardrobe and, despite it being filled with many perfectly good items of clothing, I can see NOTHING to wear and therefore feel like I can’t go out.

It’s this same disorder that sends swarms of women out to the High Street every Saturday afternoon hunting down a top to wear out that night because their own wardrobes have mysteriously emptied themselves of all things nice.

The golden rule seems to be that once an item of clothing has been washed, it somehow loses its appeal, and will be flung to the bottom of the wardrobe where it too will become invisible to the mad woman desperately looking for something to wear.

Still, at least women don’t tend to suffer a much worse illness — the one that causes men to go temporarily blind when looking at a toilet roll that needs replacing or a bin that needs emptying!